Vodka Doesn't Freeze (22 page)

'A
BOUT THE CASE
,' she said by way of greeting. 'We should tell the others about Mercy.'

The morning was clear and cool so Jill and Scotty had met for a bike ride, something they hadn't done since the murders began.

Scotty looked at her sideways.

'Like you said, the cigarette butts could be anyone's.'

Jill gave him back his sideways glance.

'So, do you figure she's capable of it?' Scotty's tone was sceptical.

'I dunno. What if she's just tailing these guys?' said Jill. 'What if she knows there's a paedophile ring and she's just watching them?'

'What for?'

Jill laced her shoes. Third time, prolonging the conversation. 'I keep asking myself that. But I think maybe she left me that photo.'

'You reckon she saw Crabbe get murdered?'

'Yeah. I think I do.'

'Just from the cigarettes?'

'And that she's worked with the victims of the first three dead men.'

'That we know of. We should check out Crabbe's vics.'

'And just that she is . . . I don't know . . . off.' Jill concluded.

'Well, we'll bring it up first thing tomorrow.' The task-force was to meet at nine.

'Meantime,' Scotty continued, straddling his bike and strapping on his helmet, 'let's get your ritual humiliation over with. It looks like it's going to rain again.' He took off on the bike.

Late that afternoon, her breath fogging the glass, Jill stood in her living room, staring out at the ocean, watching the surf creaming the rocks to the left of the beach, the playground of some diving gulls. The rain hung poised in corpulent thunderclouds.

Immobile at the glass, she felt agitated. Her life mirrored the case at the moment, simultaneously hurtling forward, and stagnant, stuck. Thoughts and feelings boiled just beneath her awareness. She wanted to face them, but at the same time there was nothing in the world she wanted less. Her thoughts were a hundred swimmers drowning in her subconscious, raising hands above the surface for moments, before being swamped again by waves of repression.

The vodka in the freezer. There was always that.

A scream of frustration came out as a sigh, and Jill turned from the glass doors. When she realised she was pacing the room, she walked to the front door and slipped her runners back on; she put the hood up on her sweatshirt, grabbed the keys and headed out.

The stairwell was always a little dank in autumn and winter, but Jill didn't notice as she flew down the stairs and out onto the road. For a weekday afternoon, Maroubra was quiet. Today was cool, and a storm was predicted.

The worries that had been buzzing around her head began to dissipate in the fresh air, and Jill jogged impatiently on the median strip in the middle of the road out the front of her unit block, waiting for a dawdling taxi to get out of the way.

She's got an arse like a boy, thought Jamaal Mahmoud, watching her from his white van in the carpark closest to the beach. I wonder what she'll sound like crying.

Jill turned right and ran up the incline towards Malabar; she needed a long run, a road run. The rain began to fall as she pounded the pavement. An Asian family ran back to their car to escape the fat drops, a squealing young girl holding her mother's hand. After she'd passed them, Jill stuck out her tongue and collected some rain. She felt a thrill of pleasure when the smell of newly wet soil and road hit the back of her throat with the raindrop. As usual, a rush of dread followed the pleasurable feeling. Her body's warning system had been switched on at age twelve, and had not shut off since. Feelings of relaxation registered threat, signalling her defences to snap on.

Her eyes narrowed through the rain and she scanned the environment for danger. The family had reached their station wagon; the young mother clipped on her daughter's seatbelt from outside of the car, her back in the rain. A few cars passed, wipers on, windscreens beginning to fog. There was no foot traffic anywhere near her. She got back to the rhythm of the run.

She could feel the damp on her shoulders now, as the rain made it through her thin windcheater, but the hood kept it off her face as it began to pour down steadily. A good rain; Sydney had been in drought all summer. She preferred the cool to the hot, scratchy feeling she'd had under her skin all day.

The clouds were pretty much sitting on the road, the sky connected to the earth by sheets of rain. She cut though it, her sneakers sending up small splashes with every step. Puddles and shadows formed quickly. She was only vaguely aware of the road traffic now.

Jamaal, cruising along the street a hundred metres behind her, was dry in his van. His image of her as an adolescent boy was working well for him – from the back view, there was no real difference – he had his erect penis in one hand, the other hand on the wheel. He was listening to love song dedications on the radio, looking very much forward to their meeting.

He hadn't planned on taking her today, but the weather was perfect. The rain was coming down so hard now he could hear it over the music. His wipers were on double speed. Crazy bitch. Running like this in the rain.

He let go of his member and popped open the glove box. The chloroformed cloth was there in a bag. Be prepared. He knew there was a big housing commission block coming up, with a park on the right. There was a vacant lot just before the housing project. He could take her there. All the windows would be closed in the units. Any screams would be lost in the rain.

Lightning rendered the clouds green for a moment and a huge thunderclap sounded. A sign, thought Jamaal. Braking a little, he reached into the glove box and removed the bag. He put it on the seat next to him, and struggled to put his penis back into his pants. He considered leaving it out while he took her, but she'd have plenty of time to see it later.

Jill came out of her reverie with the thunderclap. Shit. Close. She realised that her shoes were full of water and even her underclothes were soaked. Her visibility was poor, and a sudden shudder ran up her spine. To the next pole then, and then home, she told herself. She always had to have a goal to reach, couldn't just turn around. The pole was just before the housing projects up ahead. That would have to do.

Jamaal stopped his van just near the telegraph pole in front of the vacant block. He had enjoyed this feeling many times before. The quiet space before an attack. A building feeling. Adrenalin squirted from his sympathetic nervous system, triggering his heart to beat faster, engorging the muscles in his limbs with blood. His fingers opened and closed a little, grasping at nothing. His nostrils flared for more air, his pupils dilated to take in more light. The sweat glands on his hands activated to assist with grip. Jamaal was consciously aware of none of these physiological reactions, but he instinctively knew them well; he also knew his body would not fail him when he needed it.

Soon. All his thoughts focused upon the figure approaching. He knew that once he touched the handle of the door he would not stop until he had her in the van.

Jamaal stretched his left hand to the seat next to him and palmed the cloth with his right hand. He reached for the door handle.

Jill reached the telegraph pole, touched it, and turned for home. It was absolutely pissing down.

'
Sharmuta!
' Jamaal screamed in Arabic. He physically shook with the effort of staying in the car. His heart shuddered to slow down. He smashed his fist into the steering wheel. Once, twice. 'Fucking cunt!'

He threw the cloth onto the passenger seat and reached for a cigarette, his fingers trembling. The chloroform from the rag, the vapours still on his fingers, entered his nostrils and he swooned; he blinked back the blackness, still cursing, his anger, if anything, climbing.

His mobile rang four times before he answered, choking out a grunt.

Jamaal's wife was on the phone, wanting to know where he had been and where the money for food was. She wanted to know why the police had come to their home.

Jamaal's eyeballs felt like they were melting, and his head hurt so badly that he wondered whether somewhere in there his brain was bleeding.

'O
KAY
. T
ODAY'S THE
day we round up our three best suspects. All of these people are linked to at least three of the dead men.'

Jardine stood at the whiteboard, addressing the assembled group; the taskforce had already met for an hour this morning, and Jill had told them about the cigarette butts at the park. The bosses had now come in for a run-down.

Jardine was average height, average build, with dark thinning hair. Wearing chainstore suit pants, white shirt and a blue tie, his vinyl shoes needed replacing and faint discolouration marked the neck of his shirt. Lunchroom gossip said he was in the process of a divorce and that his ex-wife had recently shown up at Central and accused one of the PAs of sleeping with him. Apparently, the females here considered him quite a catch. Jill couldn't figure it, but hell, how was she to know. Her gut instinct when she met most males was to walk the other way; half the time their smell alone made her want to run.

I'd do Jardine any day before him, though, she thought, as Elvis approached the board, pen in hand. The buttons of the shirt tucked into his low-slung jeans gaped, revealing a mound of hairy belly trying to push its way to freedom.

Probably thought you looked real good with your gut sucked in this morning, didn't you, Elvis, she asked him silently, giving him a cat-like grin.

Catching her sideways smile, Elvis seemed somewhat disconcerted for a moment, and then she watched him pull himself together. Suddenly Calabrese's smart-arse attitude was nowhere to be seen. The bosses were here now.

Oh my God, they've rehearsed this, she thought, as Elvis and Jardine took turns to run a presentation to the group. Inspector Andreessen and Inspector Beaumont sat together, both appearing tired and grey. A couple of uniformeds from Central also sat in on the meeting.

Elvis wrote the names of their three major suspects across the top of the board.

Dr Mercy Merris Alejandro Sebastian Jamaal Mahmoud

Huh. Me and Scotty gave 'em all of them, Jill thought resentfully. She tuned out as the song-and-dance-act out the front continued, but copied the contents of the whiteboard into her murder book in order to look busy. It was nothing she didn't know already. She copied:

Dr Mercy Merris

Therapist: treated victims of Manzi, Carter and Rocla.

To do: follow up any patients linked to Crabbe. Cigarette butts found at scene of Crabbe's murder.

To do: Forensics

Did she supply police with a photograph of the Crabbe crime scene? No trace found on photo.

To do: Search car and home for camera and equipment.

Jamaal Mahmoud

Employed by Sebastian.

Injured in the car when Manzi was murdered. Claims he accidentally hit his head, but not supported by evidence.

Forensics does not implicate him in the death of Manzi, but ? involvement in company of a third person.

Suspected link to all victims in child pornography ring. Unconfirmed witnesses allege Mahmoud is part of the same ring. To do: follow up witness reports (Honey Delaney).

Alejandro Sebastian

Suspected link to all victims in child pornography ring. Unconfirmed witnesses allege Sebastian is head of this group.

To do: follow up witness reports (Honey Delaney); investigate youth club in Kings X.

'Harris and I will take Sebastian,' said Jardine. 'His direct link to the men is least clear and we'll be tentative in the interview, keeping things general. We'll let him know that we've become aware that he knows the dead men, and that we're effectively just seeking his assistance. Apparently this guy knows his way around the legal system.

'Because Jackson has consulted Dr Merris on a professional basis,' Jardine continued, 'we're -'

'What did you say?' Jill was aware of the heat in her face and voice. All eyes were on her. She saw Elvis raise his hand to his face as though to push his hair back. His middle finger was extended; his eyes danced.

'No big deal, Jill,' Jardine played mildly surprised, placatory. 'You had some counselling with her a couple of years ago, didn't you? We just thought it'd be better for Eddie here to take her, given your history.'

Jill modulated her voice to match Jardine's. No way were these boys going to make her out to be some unhinged female.

'Just so we're all clear' – you arsehole – 'I attended a mandatory debrief following a discharge of firearm incident. Not sure whether you'd be aware or not, Jardine, but you get sent to these compulsory meetings when you have to use your gun.' She saw the uniformeds smile slightly. Most people knew she'd been promoted after she'd taken out a scumbag. 'It's an OH and S issue.

'Regardless,' she continued, everyone still watching her, most hoping for a car crash, 'Scott Hutchinson and I are happy to take Mahmoud. Scotty and I interviewed Merris once already when we first found the link between these suspects and the dead men. We've also already started on Mahmoud – we went out to his house in Lakemba on Wednesday. We were planning on following him up today.'

'Good work then.' Andreessen and Beaumont were standing; they'd addressed her. The meeting was over.

Jardine and Elvis stood stock still at the whiteboard.

'Eat shit,' she mouthed at them, smiling, while the bosses left the room.

An important detail was maddeningly close to Jill's awareness, but she couldn't quite grasp it. She was distracted as Scotty unlatched the low metal gate that led up to Jamaal Mahmoud's front door. A van in the driveway indicated that Mahmoud was almost certainly at home. Jill took a look through the driver's window as they passed the van. A partition blocked the front seats from the rear of the vehicle. There was nothing to see in the front, and blackened glass obscured the contents of the rear.

Scotty's loud knock on the screen door raised muffled sounds from within the fibro home, but they waited for some time before anyone responded. The street was relatively quiet. The engine of a delivery van resembling the one in the driveway coughed to life a couple of houses down. A woman wearing a hijab crossed the street nearby after leaving a halal butcher shop on the corner. She used her remote to pop open the boot of her car, and put two heavy-looking plastic bags inside.

Scotty looked at Jill and had raised his fist to knock again when the interior door suddenly opened; Jill sensed a male presence behind the one-way mesh of the security screen.

'Good afternoon,' boomed Scotty, smiling broadly, 'Sergeants Hutchinson and Jackson. We dropped by the other day. Here to speak to Mr Jamaal Mahmoud.'

A malevolent silence followed. Finally, a dark-skinned man with hooded eyes and a coathanger of a nose opened the screen door.

'Ah, Mr Mahmoud, is it? Hope we aren't interrupting anything?'

The man wore a tracksuit and slippers. He stared flatly past them into the yard.

'Mr Mahmoud,' said Jill, 'I met you when you were hospitalised at Prince of Wales. You might remember? I believe your friend Mr Sebastian was visiting you at the time?'

Mahmoud hawked phlegm in the back of his throat.

A pigtailed girl aged around five poked her head around her father's legs and stared up at Scotty, eyes wide. Too late, she grabbed for a ginger cat that darted out through the gap in the door. Mahmoud uttered a curse under his breath, aiming a kick at the cat that would have sent it flying had it not launched itself from the step before the foot could connect. The cat sat in the sun near the white van and looked back at them, seemingly nonchalant, cleaning a paw, its tail sweeping the path. The girl was gone.

'What do you want here?' Jamaal addressed Scotty.

'Well, we need your help, Mr Mahmoud. We have some more questions to ask you about the night you were assaulted and George Manzi was killed. It would be easiest if you came back to the station with us so we can record your statement.'

'I have already given my statement. There is nothing more I can say. I can remember nothing about the night.'

Scotty was still smiling, enthusiastic. 'Yes, we've read your statement, Mr Mahmoud, but I'm afraid we need more information.'

A woman's voice speaking Arabic cut off Mahmoud's reply. The woman who had answered the door on Wednesday now filled the space behind her husband. She continued to speak, and the man's eyes narrowed in anger. He snapped back a response, also in Arabic, and stepped forward away from her, his fists clenched.

'We will go.' He kicked off the slippers and stepped into some shoes lined up next to others at the door.

Jill prepared the interview room while Scotty found a place in the police carpark for Mahmoud to park his van. A female probationary constable helped her become familiar with the recording equipment. The two sound-activated audio recorders and a digital video recorder were newer than those at Maroubra.

'Do you need both audios?' The girl looked to be about nineteen, perfect skin, clean brown hair tucked behind unpierced ears.

Was I ever that young? Jill smiled, thinking of her mother's saying, 'You know you're getting old when the police look like kids.'

'Yeah, thanks, Audrey. Don't want to miss anything this guy says. Are you sitting in?'

'That okay? Beaumont assigned me to you guys today.'

'Yeah, of course.'

Jill checked her notes and scribbled down a few more questions. She kept her head down when Scotty bounded in, chatting away to the taciturn man next to him. Mahmoud dropped into the seat to which Audrey Galea, the young constable, directed him. Galea fussed around the video camera, ensuring she had the equipment working smoothly. Scotty took his seat and looked up at Jill, ready to begin the interview.

Jill stated the time and date, and identified those present in the room. 'Mr Mahmoud,' she continued, 'would you please state your name and date of birth?'

'Jamaal Mahmoud. Fifth of July, 1967.'

'And your address?'

'Forty-one George Street, Lakemba.'

Jill recited the verbal preamble that preceded each police statement, and asked Mahmoud to agree that he would tell the truth.

Jamaal found that he could keep his anger from his voice by speaking to the bitch's tits. While he gave them the same bullshit about the night George was killed, he fantasised about putting this whore to work. A week on Canterbury Road servicing the Australians on their way home would show this one her real place in life. He ground his teeth when she fired another question at him, demanding he answer to her.

He felt some satisfaction when he heard all the questions about Sebastian. He knew he should be worried that the police had an interest in his boss, but why should he be the only one they question? He was no-one's dog. He imagined Sebastian on the inside, having to suck cock to make enough friends to stay alive in gaol. He almost laughed aloud, but was drawn back to the interview by a question asked by the big Australian.

No, of course he did not know anything about the child pornography found in the front of the car with Manzi, he told them. Jamaal wondered what sort of a man could take orders from a bitch. Even one this big would drop like a bag of shit when hit from behind. Jamaal hoped one day to make that happen.

Caring little for the answers he gave, Jill concentrated on questions that she hoped might rattle Jamaal. She knew better than to hope he might respond with the truth, but his answers now could trip him up in a lie in the future. She also wanted him to believe that they'd connected him and Sebastian to Carter, Crabbe and Rocla. She asked him whether he knew each of them, intimating that Bobby Anglia had told them more than he actually had. She registered a tick of satisfaction when Jamaal lost his temper momentarily.